


Savor

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [6]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Gen, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: A celebration when there's nothing to celebrate.





	Savor

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "cannibalism"

He tells you to eat.

He tells you with a smile and sets a plate in front of you piled high with juicy cuts of meat, pinkish-red and pulpy in the center.  He still has a sinew-covered butcher knife in one hand and someone is still screaming in the basement. Your stomach twists and aches and you eye the steak hungrily.

(You know it’s steak because steak can be any number of things.  You can have pork steak or beef steak or fish steak or—)

“Help me,” the injured animal beneath your feet is shrieking, voice muffled through the floorboards, “Please don’t leave me here, it hurts so bad, it hurts, just tell me what you want I’ll do anything illdoanythingplease!”

Strade casts an irritated glance towards the basement door.  “Some people are so needy,” he laughs, “They’re just going to have to wait, though.  This is your celebration, not theirs.”

A celebration, you marvel.  That makes sense, you suppose, it would have to be a celebration; he hardly ever gives you food like this.  But you can’t recall what’s being celebrated.

He can tell what you’re thinking

(he always can)

and he comes to stand beside you, smile widening as he takes a handful of raw steak and holds it up, closer to your mouth.  “Don’t you remember?” he asks, “Today, three months ago, you started living here with us.”

When he says “us,” your eyes flick across the table at the other one, orange, furry ears pressed down to the sides of his head.  He has a plate of his own but he hasn’t touched it yet.

“And you’ve been so good lately,” Strade goes on, gripping your chin with his free hand and urging you to open your mouth, “That deserves a reward.”

You hesitate for a moment before you tentatively swipe your tongue over the food being offered, tasting something heady and savory and

(wait this isn’t right this isn’t right)

good, it’s really good, you didn’t even realize how hungry you were.  Strade chuckles as you eat sloppily out of his hand, sauce

(oh god no it’s not sauce at all)

dripping down your chin and smearing across your cheeks, tearing manageable chunks from the whole with your teeth

(it’s human it’s HUMAN WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!)

and you think it’s the best thing you’ve eaten in days, definitely the most filling. He gives you an appreciative pat on the head when you lick his fingers without being told, cleaning his hands the best you can.  

“Look at how good you are,” he murmurs, “Not at all the way you were when you first came here.  You’re much better now.” You feel a stab of disappointment when he cuts off the praise there and walks over to the other end of the table.  “Ren, it’s your turn,” he calls. The fox whimpers and draws in on himself. “Come on now, this is a celebration. I’m not going to leave you out.”

A celebration.  Yes, you think, you have earned a celebration.  This is a special day, a good day. You

(can still taste them on your tongue, still taste their blood and their skin and their sweat)

deserve this.  

Ren gives a protesting whine when Strade cups his face and forces the meat into his open mouth, refusing to move until the fox starts to chew.  “See?” he asks, “Not so bad, right?” When he turns away, Ren begins to gag, covering his mouth and trying to keep everything down. 

(That should be you right now.  You should be disgusted. You should be throwing it up because you’re eating a person)

Strade frowns.  “Looks like we’re almost out,” he says, and then smiles brightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll go get us some more.  You finish what you have left, okay?” The last words are a warning.

You hear the basement door open and shut.  You hear his heavy footfalls down the steps, and then the begging and crying and screaming starts all over again, “No more, please, no more, I-I can’t—!”

You hear Ren nearly tripping over his own feet as he leaps out of his chair, plate clinking against the wooden table as he grabs it, you hear him run to the bathroom and retch into the toilet and then you hear him panting, trying to catch his breath, turning on the sink to wash down the taste.

“Please I just wanna go home, I won’t tell anyone, I swear to god, I-I-I….”

You don’t do anything.  You just sit at the table with one final half-eaten piece of meat in front of you.  Ren stumbles back into the kitchen and takes his seat again, his plate empty, and looks at you

(hesitantly, reluctantly.  Like he’d rather not).

“You don’t have to eat it,” he whispers, “I’ll flush it, if you want.”

You look back down at the last of your steak wordlessly.  

(Yes yes you should do that you should listen to him)

You are thinking of something.

(What are you waiting for say yes say please get this fucking thing away from me)

Your stomach growls; a pang of hunger shoots through you.  You don’t want to waste this food. You don’t want to just throw away something he went through so much trouble to prepare for you.  You begin to devour the rest of it, only vaguely aware that you’re making a mess as you toss your head back to rip a chunk loose with your teeth.  You don’t know why you’re so hungry but you are, you feel a great void inside of you that you’re afraid to leave empty so you try to fill it with the raw (bloody) delicious (gut-wrenching) steak.

This is a celebration, you tell yourself, this is a special day, and for some reason you start to cry uncontrollably.

**Author's Note:**

> original tag commentary included: "i imagined them all in party hats"


End file.
